Oct 12

And Yet

There’s a canyon under the road I travel
Always waiting, unseen
I, unaware as the bridge swayed to break 
And under me lured a truth
Something there, I felt
But its steep cliffs fall question
Once slipped, curiosity turned commitment

I saw it once
The glow of something so pure and relatable
It was there when I wiped the dust from my eyes
And I let myself approach it at the bottom of the canyon
As if I could cup it in my hand and call it mine.

Only a few inches away a stream trickled
I tried to step over it
I tried to bypass the clear water
Clear water I am still straining to see through in its muck
With branches and debris I became in part of crashing surge
And I was hit with them 

Until sight was snapped away from the simplicity of shimmering truth 
My mind drowned in it
Weighed down by dripping bricks
Sep 25

Bubbles 3

Aug 25

Very odd poem on young adulthood

The decrepit trees stick up from the swamp upstairs, discarded hairbrushes with the bristles too brittle and broken. It’s the second doorless frame on the right. The one with fresh green paint sliding down in timid rivers trying to find its future in the right split in wood. The old brushes are doing a horrid job detangling the clouded ceiling, though minimum wage isn’t a big motivator, so the clouds are now curly knotted messes bleached over lonely teenager starch blue, and residue in the waxy leaves freshen fingertips dipping into empty perfume bottles. Grass is the remnants of impulsively cut hair finding itself as a natural depiction of its owner rediscovered, trod on only by others and avoided in conversation. Sunsets and happy mountain hugs hang in crooked unison on the raw wood walls amid years of pin-hole constellations marking them. 

No idea what to title this
Aug 25

right back down

(Camels Hump mtn)

The summit were miles become minuscule 
Is a blue fade of a pinprick from fresh cut grass and gravel home 
As you stand there and ponder
That you stood atop said such dome
Burning muscles to reach something breathtaking 
To be back at the bottom by noon
How the view is unstoppable
But that afternoon the view is your room
How you cherish that moment
Only after you’ve grasped that it's real
Because now you’re in the car listening to radio
And it's becoming no big deal
But spend hours inside at the desktop
Or a summer of hot tubs and wealth
And you’ll never reach the top
Of that feeling of pushing yourself
And there is that stubborn expanse of prickly pine trees
Who wonder why we come and go come and go 
When the view from the top is a daily show
You could just stay here ya know?

Jul 09


Jun 28


Delicate fringes of mannered creamy stitches drape across
Purposeful tan extremities and the careful fingers of time spent with nail polish and rich money in toe, stroking
Silky curls which
Hang around phone screen of friends absorbing
The gaze of habitual eyes that
Fail to see in disregard to contamination the
Rich tendrils of moss which
Drape in folding extensions across
Light lit raw stone and it's cool touch against 
Light khaki shorts or
The polished backs of ants as they shop for sustenance in their disproportionate mall of rock moss tree rock moss tree and 
They live to scare the pretentious humans unaccepting of relation to such monstrosities other than
Through a filtered lens
The size of an ant

Jun 28

The avoided pond

I fold restless legs underneath myself and connect more of myself to the soft red pine needles and well-trod dirt, the rest of our group in similar states of settling down. The sarcastic comment as we viewed the dark pond sticks in my mind. “We aren’t walking through THAT are we?” I think of the abundant ecosystem the same pond provides, and yet the residue it leaves making it unpleasant and unwelcoming. I imagine getting into the water and the thought of it makes me shiver.

Jun 28

The Weight of Water

A shush engulfs the valley     and
miniscule flesh of roots skinned by travel   and
the whispering drizzle collects to cling on the tips of pine   and
as mist clears, my reflection sharpens in the water caught between sage old rock   and
drip, slip, condensation remembers its past home below the cliffs   and
I am rooted like the water   and
now, trunks, bark, vanish   and
stumps coat me in the valley   and
my mind-boggle-fog passes into clean sky   while
I am floating in a sea 

Soo... haven't been on here for a long time and I usually post art - but should be posting a bunch more writing as well as art as I finally return! So happy to be back to YWP (:
Feb 26

Can’t we see?